


Lost on You

by LarasLandlockedBlues



Series: Just Say Lass [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Growth, Closeted Character, Culture Shock, Divorce, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, For most of the fic, Guilt, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, MCiT knows nothing about Thedas, Modern Character in Thedas, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, OC is kind of an asshole, Pansexual Rylen (Dragon Age), Reconciliation, Redemption, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Everything, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, eventual OT3, no seriously I mean like...chapter 22, trying to get home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues
Summary: I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.Robert FrostHe wanted to fix his mistake, but he didn't realize how far he'd have to go to make his way back to her.
Relationships: Rylen (Dragon Age)/Original Character(s), Rylen (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Rylen (Dragon Age)/Original Female Characters/Original Male Characters, Rylen (Dragon Age)/Original Male Character
Series: Just Say Lass [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/982629
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	1. The Greatest Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know, another WIP. I've thought and played with this idea for a while and honestly it fits my headspace at the moment. I needed something angsty and I love John's voice so...have a new fic!  
> I do want to preface it by saying I know John isn't a fave and he is definitely starting off the fic being his usual morally grey, problematic self. I intend to explore giving him a legit redemption arc (and admittedly putting him through some shit). I've tagged this for things that won't happen until towards the end of the fic for full disclosure (the OT3 and smut, which I'm spoilering now because I know it's not everyone's thing). Honestly it's part of the resolution and won't actually feature heavily, since I don't intend to let this stretch on for too long. On that note I am also intending to heavily gloss canon - John doesn't know anything about it, and honestly at this point the game has been out for 6 years, so I'm assuming you know what's up. This will mostly focus on John and his struggles, as well as his developing complicated relationship with Rylen and all that ensues with that.  
> I love treating these AUs (of AUs) like the movie "Sliding Doors" if you've ever seen it. They make one decision and take one path, and maybe they stay on Earth - make a different decision, and they fall into Thedas. It's a fun way to treat this fic, and it means that it does branch off from a chapter of Wicked Game from this series. But that is not required reading for this at all.  
> Now that I've rambled far too long, enjoy!  
> xx,  
> Lara
> 
> ~~  
> Fic Title taken from ["Lost on You" by LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDjeBNv6ip0)  
> Fic Summary taken from ["The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken)  
> [John's Face Claim](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ce/43/e7/ce43e7e086491ed2179adc33cf89a494.jpg)  
> [Abigail's Face Claim](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c1/b9/4e/c1b94effe6134587366961f189817e41.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: ["The Greatest Bastard" by Damien Rice](https://youtu.be/CBmWVrAI9r0>)

The suitcase hit the floor with a thud of finality that made his insides clench.

John found himself determined, though, and simply watched her struggle to open it. As she began to haphazardly throw in items from the closet, he turned away, gritting his teeth and sucking his cheeks in as he swirled the scotch in his glass.

He refused to help her if leaving was what she wanted to do.

When she slammed the suitcase shut he turned back, glaring at the black container as if it was the cause of her departure. He knew it wasn’t, but she hadn’t been willing to listen to him, hadn’t believed him that he wanted to fix this. That he still loved her.

Her tear-streaked face when she turned back caused his gut to plummet once more, the urge to beg her to stay nearly overwhelming.

_Not like this._

He wouldn’t beg her like this, wouldn’t ask her to stay by confessing what he had done. She was too angry, and always far too stubborn.

“Can I at least take my clothes with me?” She sneered after she said it, though her lips trembled and he knew she was fighting more tears.

“Abby —”

Before he could even admonish her, she snorted and pushed past him, bumping his shoulder as she did. He straightened and shot her a glare, shaking the scotch off his hand as he flexed it.

“Could you at least refrain from making a mess on your way out?” he snapped. “There’s still glass all over the floor downstairs, after all.”

He couldn’t resist — he knew he was the one who had made the mess, who had caused all of this. Or at least, had made things worse; he refused to take the entirety of the blame for everything that had happened in the last year.

In response to his demand, she stopped beside his dresser, reaching for the wedding photo he had in a silver frame on top of it. Turning back, she fixed him with a withering glare and held the photo up. “Oh, a mess? Like this?”

John flinched as the frame collided with the wall, glass shattering and the joining of metal and cardboard backing coming apart.

“ _Jesus_ , Abby —”

“Oops.”

With that she turned and continued marching from the room, the wheels of the suitcase clattering as she began to haul it down the stairs. He followed at a distance, seething as he watched her struggle to pull her leather jacket on. It was strange that even if this was what he had decided on, the punishment he had chosen for her, he still didn’t feel like it was real.

At least, not until he saw her snatching her father’s paintings from the living room walls.

“These are mine,” she growled, and leveled him with a glare as if challenging him to deny them to her.

Instead he found himself speechless.

It was the fact that they solely held sentimental value — they weren’t worth money for a lawyer, an apartment, anything. She wasn’t preparing herself for where she was going.

She was preparing herself for never returning.

“Abby wait —”

“No. I’m fucking done.” She carefully tucked the paintings under one arm and glared at him, tears silently streaming down her cheeks.

The sight tore him in two, but he stood straighter and kept his face a mask.

“You son of a bitch, you’re not even really sorry to see me go!” Her voice broke and she finally turned on her heel, struggling with the paintings and suitcase so that she stumbled. “Fuck you! I hope you rot in hell —”

“Gorgeous —”

“Don’t you dare say another fucking word!”

She glared over her shoulder as she tried to pull the door open, and he chewed his tongue as he watched her.

He wouldn’t help her leave — he wouldn’t, _wouldn’t_ —

But she dropped a painting and sank to her knees, trying to gather it back up as she began sobbing harder.

John slammed his glass on the counter, going against his resolve but unable to resist.

He never could resist.

As he reached for the painting she recoiled, and elbowed his hand away.

“I’ve got it! I don’t need help from a lying asshole —”

“I just wanted to help. Please, Abby. I’m not —”

“I don’t want your help. I don’t want anything to do with you, and you filed! So it’s clear the feeling’s mutual.” She grabbed the painting from the floor and pushed herself to her feet. “So back off!”

“Fine!” he shouted, throwing a hand up in surrender. “If you don’t want to handle this like adults —”

“The chance for that was blown when you _fucked someone else_!” With that she finally wrenched the door open, and managed to shove the suitcase through. “Get fucked!”

The last was thrown over her shoulder with yet another look that told him if possible she wanted him to drop dead at that very moment.

With the door closed between them, silence fell until it was oppressive on his ears, something palpable that pressed in on him, the walls feeling closer and closer…

He struggled to take a deep breath, turning away from the door when he heard the telltale _ding_ of the elevator arriving. His hope that she would walk back through the door diminished with every second that passed. It was a fool’s hope, he knew — she was angry, and he had filed to push her out.

Even if only because he refused to let her leave using his money, the money he had always spent to make her happy, to give her everything she wanted.

_How much had it been to ask that she do the same in return?_

Bitterness at the thought soured his tongue, and he picked his scotch up to drain it in one gulp. A cursory glance around the kitchen and living room showed too many hints of her — even her laptop remained at her desk in the corner, surrounded by journals of her notes.

If she hadn’t taken that, perhaps there was hope that she would be back.

Still the crushing silence left in her wake was more than he could handle, alone with his thoughts and the regret he had done the better part of a year working to ignore. It always lingered, weaving itself around the guilt he knew he bore, but he refused to let himself acknowledge and wallow in it. Mistakes were made, but he longed to erase them, pretend they never happened so that he wasn’t defined by them.

Watching her walk out had gutted him, even with knowing it was going to happen after he filed. He had intended to hurt her, but seeing the reality of it had left him fractured in ways he hadn’t expected.

It was too much. 

Striding past where glass still glittered on the floor of the kitchen from the wine bottle she had thrown at his head, he took the stairs two at a time up to their room. The sight of more destruction greeted him, and for a moment he realized he’d forgotten she had thrown the picture frame.

Gingerly picking it up, he removed a shard of glass so that he could study the photograph more clearly. It was her smile that always drew him in, the way she shone brighter than the sun above them, reflecting off the waves of the ocean behind them. She had been happy — so happy it made his eyes prick painfully as he stared at the proof. In the picture he stood staring down at her, smiling as he basked in the warmth of her love, a hand in his pocket and the other curled around her waist.

He had promised to give her the world, to take her away from the lonely life she had led, barely scraping by to support herself and her mother. Now…

Pieces of glass fell into the carpet as he turned the frame in his hands, removing the backing completely where it dangled so that he could extract the photo from within. He wasn’t quite certain why he did it, only that seeing it in this state pained him. After another moment spent staring at it, wishing he could go back to that moment, that he could change course to live up to his promises, he instead folded the photo. It fit easily in his wallet, and he tried not to focus on how he had had to ruin it with a crease.

The need to have it with him somehow placated his aching heart.

Only it made him restless, angry and wishing he had something to rage at, somewhere to channel all of it. He didn’t think about how the photo now rested where the condom she had found had.

_So stupid — I was such a fool —_

Cutting off the thought he decided on a different course, a way to work through everything and release the horrible tension in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. The text was sent in a flash, and he stepped into the master bath to splash water on his face. As he scrubbed his face dry with a towel he met his own gaze in the mirror, taking in the hollow look that lingered behind his eyes.

Frustrated, John threw the towel aside and left the bathroom, grabbing his keys from his dresser and checking his wallet. He didn’t bother pulling his suit jacket on, and merely rolled his sleeves over his forearms as he hurried down the stairs.

There would be time to pick up the pieces of glass later, for now he just needed to find a way around this, through this — even if it only added to his unending regret.

The elevator moved too slowly, and he did his best not to snap at the doorman when he offered to hail him a cab. Instead he requested his car, and shoved his hands in his pockets as he waited. He had been an idiot not to grab a coat, since it wasn’t quite spring yet and the brisk evening air easily cut through his dress shirt.

_It will be Abby’s birthday in a few weeks…_

He pushed aside the thought when it stampeded through his brain, and was luckily kept from focusing on it more by the arrival of the valet with his SUV. Once he was inside he swung out into traffic, something like mad desperation driving him onward.

If he stopped moving the silence became too loud, and he knew at present he couldn’t bear it, the proof of her absence.

Traffic kept him distracted until he found himself pulling along the curb, the tower of the hotel above him. He slumped back in his seat, hands draped over the steering wheel, and considered.

How had he gotten here?

Not here, the hotel — although truthfully he could hardly remember any of the drive.

But he could not fathom how he had reached this point, how the woman he loved had slipped through his fingers because —

Well, that was the part he couldn’t answer, the thing he couldn’t piece together or reconcile. 

When a valet stepped to the window, he gave him a bleary glance and then shook his head, holding up a finger to indicate he needed a minute. Despite having planned this, despite needing the release somehow, he found he couldn’t turn the engine off and get out of the car.

There was a thought needling the back of his brain, a realization sticking that he had worked so hard to ignore yet now came to blindside him with the truth.

This was shortsighted, and only led him further down the path that had caused her to walk out, the image of which was replaying nonstop in his mind.

He could go in, he could continue down the path that led him further into the darkness that was threatening to swallow him whole. Or, he could…

Could what? Abby had made her thoughts clear, she had screamed at him to leave her alone. But he wanted — needed — to try.

_Fuck._

He had been an absolute idiot, but maybe if he chose to turn back, to course correct…

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he opened a different message thread.

_Abby — I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was angry, but I should have waited for us to talk about it. Please, let me buy you dinner. Let’s talk before doing something rash. Please, gorgeous. Give me this chance. I have to see you._

Without letting himself second-guess the decision he hit send, and sat for a moment taking a few deep breaths. He could feel the impatience building within him, unable to understand why he didn’t receive a reply immediately.

Another thought occurred to him the longer the silence stretched on, and he opened his Find My Phone app. Putting in her info, he waited as the screen loaded, desperate for the answer.

Brooklyn — she wasn’t that far, really.

Setting his phone aside, screen up, he pulled out of park and back into the street. Navigating took up his attention, glancing at the map as he made his way toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He was stopped at a light when his phone buzzed, and he immediately snatched it up to open the message.

_[Kitten sent 8:57 p.m.] Rot in hell, I hope you fucking choke on your scotch you cheating bastard._

The light changed before he could reply, and he set his phone down once more as he tried to calm the way it made him feel.

It was all right — he was on his way to her, and they would talk. He had to try to get her to see, to understand. Maybe he could take it all back.

Finally parking down the block from the bar, he double checked the address on the map before looking at the buildings lining the narrow street. It was a dive, but he shouldn’t have expected otherwise. For several moments he sat, staring out the windshield as he tried desperately to think of what to say.

He’d never wanted this — and perhaps it was as simple as starting with that truth.

There was a hazy green to the street when he stepped out of his car, likely from nearby neons. Without looking around he straightened his tie and pocketed his phone, trying to compose himself as he turned to make his way toward the bar.

As for what happened next, he wasn’t certain he could ever fully explain it.

Perhaps he tripped, and at first he thought he might have fallen through an open manhole cover. Yet what had been hazy green light was swirling all around him, blinding him as he plummeted as if from the top of a skyscraper. His attempts to cry out were halted by the sheer terror and velocity with which he continued falling.

And falling.

Time seemed to speed past until it stood still, and he was so disoriented as he tried to discern his surroundings as vivid green swallowed him that he didn’t know exactly how long he fell. He wasn’t aware of anything but uncertainty until, quite unexpectedly, he slammed into hard ground that was layered in something soft — and freezing.

Balling his fist he was met by fluffy wetness, and raising his head he found blinding snow surrounded him. The haze of green still lingered, and as his gaze moved higher his jaw dropped.

There was a tear of emerald and black in the sky, with chunks that looked like earth and rock swirling within its vortex. White-covered, craggy mountains and pine trees stretched as far as he could see, the entire landscape strange, as if he had suddenly been transported to the Alps or Rocky Mountains.

That was impossible, though — he had been on a street in Brooklyn, approaching a dive bar. He couldn’t have possibly ended up in either mountain range, or any other, for that matter.

It made no sense.

Yet he was cold, shivering in only his dress shirt and slacks, his shiny black oxfords filled with snow that soaked into his socks. John could feel it all, so very, _very_ real; visceral sensations that made him doubt his certainty that he could not, in reality, be where he was.

Perhaps the impression of falling had been because he was hit by a car. He had been in the street, after all, and not paying attention to where he was going in his haste to find Abby. It would explain everything; he had been injured, hence why his body ached and felt cold, and his mind was conjuring an unusually lucid dream in which to trap him.

The swirling tear in the sky could be the siren lights of emergency services above him, or damage to his brain likely caused by impact.

That did little to reassure him, and yet he found he was slightly comforted to know that if this was a coma dream, at least he was still alive. What he should do next, though, was harder to discern.

“Oi! Serah it’s not safe — the blasted hills are crawling with demons and the like!”

A deep and accented voice called out, and John turned in place as he sought it. And again, his jaw dropped at what he saw.

The figure of a tall, broad man was hurrying through the snow toward him. He was fully dressed in armor, the silver reflecting the green light above them as he lowered the large sword and shield he carried. His helmet hid his hair and most of his face, though John could make out sharp lines on his nose and chin and wondered if they were some kind of — _warpaint?_ They couldn’t possibly be tattoos, but even the idea that it was makeup or paint was absurd.

So stunned by the sight of someone clad in armor stopping before him, he was unable to find his voice to ask any questions before the man spoke again. “Are you all right, Serah? What are you doing out here in the cold? You running from the blasted demons running amok?”

John continued to stare for a moment longer, then finally managed to choke out, “Demons? What the hell are you talking about?”

The man frowned, shifting how he held his sword as his eyes roamed over John’s clothes. “You lost, Serah? Or have you gone batty?”

Irritation surged within John, though he couldn’t quite place it, merely feeling annoyed that if he were trapped in his own head it had to thrust all of this upon him.

“You sound Scottish,” he finally pointed out, frowning. “Can you tell me where I am? This doesn’t look like the Highlands —”

“No, not the Hinterlands, Serah. You’re in the Frostbacks, outside Haven.” The man’s nonsensical answer only made John frown more deeply, which the man mirrored. “You look like you hit your head. Let me get you back to the village, they’re about to start another push.”

“Another — what? Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here —”

“Aye, join the rest of us,” the man interrupted. He adjusted his shield, and then gestured for John to fall into step with him.

After only a moment spent hesitating, John jerked his head in a nod and followed the man. If anything, his oxfords weren’t close to enough to keep his feet warm, and he was beginning to lose sensation in his toes.

_Maybe it’s blood loss._

Still convinced that he was having some sort of bizarre, comatose dream, he trudged through the snow beside the stranger. Glancing sidelong at him, he noticed that he was taking in their surroundings, seeming at the ready, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

“Glad I found you,” the man muttered, almost to himself. “Been patrolling trying to map other rifts, and you were near where I’d spotted one earlier. Surprised you didn’t run into trouble.”

“Rifts?” John asked again, still trying to take in everything being explained to him without it managing to make a lick of sense.

“Aye, that up there.” He gestured with his sword at the swirling green tear in the sky that John had been pointedly trying to avoid looking at. “Not the only one, just the biggest. Seems to be setting off smaller tears in the area. We’ve got everyone in the village, tryin’ to keep them safe. You’ll be fine there, but might want a healer to look at your head.”

“Listen, I still don’t know where I am,” John said, and he stopped and looked around, hands on his hips. “I was in the middle of Brooklyn, what do you mean ‘village,’ do you mean the East Village? I demand some explanations —”

“East Village? That where you from, Serah?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

The man finally stopped and turned back, realizing John was no longer walking. He frowned and shrugged. “Don’t know your name, and you look like a noble. Figured it was only polite.”

“A noble?” John groaned and dragged a hand down his face, but the cold in his extremities encouraged him to resume walking. Even if this was all in his head, the feelings were so strong he longed for a way to warm himself.

Deciding moving forward was the only way to handle it, he fell back into step beside the man and finally gritted out, “I’m John Baker.”

“Rylen MacCallum, former Knight-Captain,” the man replied, offering a small smirk when he met John’s gaze.

“Knight-Captain? Jesus Christ...well, thank you for...showing me back, I suppose.” He didn’t know what else to say, but _playing it through_ seemed his safest bet.

At least until he could get his bearings.

“Aye, least I could do. The healers should hopefully have some elfroot for your head, since you seem to have hit it. Might want to have them look at you for that jumbled memory too, could have hit it harder than you know. But you can take refuge in the tavern, try to get warm.”

“Great. Thanks.” John gritted his teeth as he looked around, his eyes drawn of their own accord to the swirling green sky above him.

All he could think was that it was the representation of how he felt, trying to come to terms with all of this.

Rylen led him back to a village surrounded by a wooden palisade, and once through the gates John saw others in similar armor rushing about, shouting orders to one another. With a clap on John’s shoulder, the man directed him toward the tavern and then hurried from his side.

Taking in the sight of what appeared to be some kind of _army_ mixed in with villagers dressed as if they were attending a renaissance faire, John felt slightly woozy. Shutting his eyes, he focused instead on what he knew to be real.

He had been on his way to see Abby, and something had happened to him. Perhaps he was in an ambulance, or had been put under for surgery, on his way to recovery.

If he could make it through this strange hallucination, he could return to working to bring her back to him. The sympathy he could get for having been injured as he raced to her side could work in his favor, even if he felt a pang to consider it.

As he wandered slowly in the direction Rylen had pointed, he shoved his hands in his pockets in an attempt to warm them, only to remember that his phone was in his pocket, as was his wallet and keys. Withdrawing his phone he input the passcode, eager for a moment —

Only to see that he had absolutely no service.

The glimmer of hope he had felt immediately dissipated, and he felt his heart sink further as he opened the message thread with Abby.

_[Kitten sent 8:57 p.m.] Rot in hell, I hope you fucking choke on your scotch you cheating bastard._

It was still the last thing she had said to him.

If he was dying —

Shoving the thought down, he turned his phone off and instead withdrew his wallet. Everything was still within it, though he couldn’t reason out why he would imagine contents missing. This was too real, it all felt like a self-defense mechanism, convincing his brain that he was still alive.

Absently he withdrew the photo he had slipped within that very evening, opening it to study and remind himself what was worth surviving for.

Yet he looked around at the strange place surrounding him and wondered how in the hell he would manage.


	2. The Carelessness of Running Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["Wish I Stayed" by Ellie Goulding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZY78asVr0CI).

The bartop was _filthy_.

Then again, it merely matched the rest of his surroundings. For a time he had wandered the village, trying to discern anything that might be familiar to him. It had been a fruitless endeavor, he had only found more to make him wonder if he was stuck in some kind of permanent medieval festival. He had even tried looking behind buildings or the wooden palisade surrounding the place to see if he could find a porta potty, anything that looked modern or gave any clue to this being some sort of facade. A hope that he had been drugged and taken somewhere had briefly seized him, but he found nothing to solidify the strange hope.

Instead just more villagers, scared and grouped together, or helping wounded soldiers in some sort of triage.

When all he had received were suspicious looks when he tried to ask where he was, he had finally retreated to the crowded tavern the man who called himself a “former Knight-Captain” had directed him to.

The man had mentioned rifts, tied to the large green tear in the sky — but he hadn’t seen anything of the like within the village. For the time being, the cold and his hopelessness about finding a way out of this place had driven him to seek shelter.

He wasn’t the only one to have done so, as the tavern was crowded, though it lacked any of the boisterous revelry one usually associated with this kind of place. Weren’t they supposed to be singing tavern songs, hitting tankards of ale against each other as they did?

People were huddled in every part of the tavern, talking in hushed tones and comforting those who cried. He had managed to push his way to one corner of the bar in search of some peace and quiet so that he could think.

“Serah, you’re — you’re bleeding, here.”

The soft voice sounded Irish, and he glanced across the bar to see a redheaded woman holding a damp and slightly dirty rag out to him.

When he didn’t take it, she offered more insistently. “Your head, Serah. You look like you hit it. Do you need a healer? There are some outside, perhaps you saw them —”

“I — uh, thank you.” Decided protesting would get him nowhere, he accepted the rag and fought the distaste that longed to curl his lips at the sight of it.

The woman gave him a timid smile and nodded. “Aye, I know they’re busy but they’re here to help all. If you’re in pain they can help — I know they’re,” here she lowered her voice and looked around, “mages, but — they’ve been helping. Honest.”

_Mages._

Well, they were certainly all committed to the charade, that much was clear.

“I’m — I’m fine. Thank you for the rag.”

For a moment longer the woman held his gaze, and then seemed to realize he was not going to seek out the _“mages.”_ Someone further down the bar called for the woman’s attention and she thankfully turned away from him, allowing him the chance to set the rag aside without using it.

Reaching a hand up to his head, John found a tender spot at his hairline, and his fingers came away with a small trickle of blood. It must have happened on impact, and with a small grimace he used his sleeve to wipe it away.

Nothing made sense.

Leaning into the corner created by the wooden wall and bar, he closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths. Whatever this was, wherever he was, he wished he could simply wake himself up and pull out of whatever madness had descended upon him.

It all felt too real, the aching in his body, the cold in his toes, the wet dress shirt that clung to him and chilled him to the bone. He was trapped in a waking nightmare, his mind still replaying the images of Abby crying and leaving on a loop as he struggled to accept what was happening.

His eyes closed, he became aware of snippets of conversation, and tuned in to see if he could hear anything to help him out. All it did was inspire more confusion, more hopelessness until his head began to throb with the beginning of the worst headache he could remember.

_“How long can they hold them off?”_

_“ — they have her barricaded in that cabin, but if you ask me they should have just killed her and been done with it —”_

_“They still don’t know who was behind her —”_

_“An accomplice, likely —”_

_“ — looked like Ostwick robes, someone said. Blasted mages, bringing about the end of the world, killing the Divine. Should just kill them all and remove the threat —”_

Something began nagging at the back of his mind, a vague memory of familiarity with what was being said. He tried to pinpoint it, honing in on the memory — the TV, Abby sitting on the sofa. Her black controller in her hands, navigating a small, dirty village on the screen with a character with black hair, listening to snippets talking about —

_The Divine._

Opening his eyes, John looked around with renewed curiosity, combined with abject terror.

It was the story she had written, when she had hit writer’s block. Instead of taking a break, spending time with him when she couldn’t continue her novel, she had lost herself in a fantasy story she had posted online. About a world torn apart, of mages and —

_A Knight-Captain._

He remembered her telling him about it, excited by the response she had received. It had irritated him, unable to fathom why she would waste her time on something so meaningless. Things had only spiraled from there, the way she had resumed her writing, staying up later, spending less time on him, drinking as she tried to balance working on both stories. When she had received art she had shown him, and they had fought when he had pointed out that it was meaningless.

The art…

He couldn’t picture it, but something about it continued to nag at him. 

Lost in his thoughts, trying to remember the details, he only became aware of his surroundings once more when he realized just how hungry he was. If he was really here, which he still denied could be possible, he didn’t know how long it had been since he had eaten. He pushed aside the rest of his musings, deciding that he was simply trapped in his regrets, his mind latching on to what he considered the beginning of the end, torturing him with memories of the hobby he hadn’t supported.

For now, he could control how he felt, which meant continuing to stay warm and finding sustenance.

Checking his wallet he found only a few bills tucked in with the picture he had placed there, but doubt that his money would be accepted here made him heave a sigh. He straightened his tie and back, holding himself to his full height as he tried to find the will to turn on his charm.

When the redhead moved within range once more, he allowed his face to split into a warm smile.

“Excuse me, miss,” he greeted, and genially waved a hand to help catch her attention.

“Serah, can I help you?” She moved to stand before him once more, and he caught her eyes wandering to where his temples were throbbing.

Realizing he could play into the injury, he sighed. “I’m afraid I’m — not feeling well. I don’t want to bother the he-healers, they seem to have their hands full. I lost my money but perhaps — perhaps some food could help?”

Almost as soon as he said it she nodded and hurried to grab a bowl, filling it from a nearby cauldron-like pot that rested over a small fire. She held it out with a slight grimace to him.

“It’s all right, Serah. We’ve all seen better days, so hopefully this helps. Would you like some ale?”

John nodded, if anything because he found he wouldn’t trust the water even if he asked for it. “Thank you, miss. Truly, I appreciate your help. I seem to be — very lost, and your kindness is — well. Thank you.”

Again he offered her a winning smile, noticing the way her cheeks flushed slightly as she returned it. “Of course, Serah. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

With that she turned away, and he glanced down at the bowl she had served him. It was full of what looked like oatmeal, or maybe grits was a closer comparison, bland and soggy.

Sighing to himself he glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed a corner spot had freed itself. Quickly he scooped up the bowl and tankard and wove his way through the somber crowd, securing the seat so that he could hopefully eat in peace.

He resisted smelling the food on his spoon before he tried a bite, not trusting what doing so would do to his appetite. The precaution was unnecessary as he found himself almost immediately gagging upon tasting the gruel. It wasn’t bland but almost sour, like Greek yogurt that had turned. After managing to swallow he set his spoon back in the bowl and reached for the ale, only to splutter at just how strong it was. His eyes watered, and he choked down a cough, glancing around and hoping no one was watching him.

Somehow he knew he needed to avoid attention, an instinctual self-preservation kicking in as he tried to navigate the surreality of his situation.

The taste of both lingered in his mouth, in a way that again felt simply too real for this to be a conjuring of his subconscious.

He missed Abby.

The longing tore through him, somehow brought home by swill and gruel that was unpalatable. He wondered what would have happened had he gone into the hotel — would he have still found himself here?

No, likely he would have found himself back at the penthouse after, feeling hollow and bitter as he always did. Strangely he didn’t miss Jenna at all, hadn’t wondered what she had thought when he hadn’t shown up after asking her to meet him.

Instead his mind continued to wander to Abby, wondering what she was doing, fixating on whether or not whatever had happened to him had caught her attention. If he had been struck down in the street, did those in the bar know, had they rushed out? Was she among them?

Perhaps she was beside him in a hospital room, holding his hand, teary-eyed and hoping he’d wake up…

The thoughts consumed him as he pushed away his bowl and tankard, unable to force himself to choke any of it down. As time dragged on he found himself reaching for the tankard, and was surprised when he realized he had drained it all. Exhaustion and slight intoxication seeped into him, and he leaned back against the wood, musing over what he could say when he woke up.

_I’m so sorry._

“Serah, begging your pardon —”

John jerked awake, pulling away from the hand on his shoulder. He blinked, trying to let his eyes adjust to the incredibly dim lighting. It took longer for his mind to kick into gear, unaware that he had fallen asleep — but less aware of where he was.

_No...fuck._

He was still — here. Wherever _here_ was.

“Apologies, Serah. But I — I’m closing up for the night. I’m sorry, if you don’t have anywhere else to go there’s places to shelter but I — I need to go.”

It was the redheaded barmaid from earlier, and she offered a pitying look as she stood waiting for him to respond. He straightened in his chair, looking around as a sinking feeling gripped him, and he managed a simple nod to acknowledge her request.

“The Chantry is taking in refugees if you need,” she told him.

“The — the Chantry?” he repeated, running a hand absently through his hair and immediately regretting it when his head ached.

“Aye, up on the hill. Can’t miss it,” she told him, frowning slightly as she watched him. Whatever curiosity she had, she refrained from asking any questions and simply bent to clear his bowl and tankard.

“Th-thank you,” he muttered. Steadying himself from the wooziness of sleep still clouding his mind, he managed to push to his feet.

The tavern was emptying, the huddles of people making their way wearily to the doors. Sleeping had been unexpected, and he tried to shake himself awake as he stumbled to the door.

Still here. He hadn’t thought he would still be here. Falling asleep was too real, waking up moreso, and the realization as he stepped into the chill of the night tore through him.

The swirling green of the sky pulled his gaze, and he studied it as he tried to make his brain work. It was difficult, a panic akin to actual shock making him shake, mind foggy and trying to reject the realization as it sank in.

Yet it was a truth he couldn’t fully grasp, and a strange surge of instinct made him pull his gaze away from the swirling green. Whatever was happening, he couldn’t fix it at the moment. Rest, recovery — better food, since he was still starving.

_Shelter._

Looking away from the tavern he saw the large building looming at the top of the hill, and noticed others heading its direction. He followed, his mind curiously blank as his footsteps squelched in the mud and crunched on the ice and stone. The wind cut through his dress shirt, and he cursed the fact that he hadn’t been wearing even a suit jacket in his haste to flee the silence of the penthouse.

Folding his arms across himself, he huddled against the wind until he reached the large wooden doors of the building. Once inside he found himself grateful for the fires lit in large braziers, no matter the smell of smoke that they brought. He looked around the large cathedral-like entrance, marveling at the sturdy and antiquated architecture.

It wasn’t quite acceptance that gripped him as he found a relatively unoccupied corner and sank to the floor, knees pulled into his chest. The others only gave him a passing glance, taking in his strange attire before they returned to their own troubles.

Settling in for what was likely to be a long night, he tried to prop himself against the cold, rough stone. His wallet created an uncomfortable lump in his back pocket, and he removed it, realizing he wasn’t certain it mattered if it was in the open. After all, the money within was likely worthless, if this was all truly reality.

But he withdrew the photo once more, staring at the smile on Abby’s face and wondering if he would ever see it again.


	3. The Shark

“No, I have her.”

The young mage was secured in the Commander’s arms, and Rylen helped Seeker Pentaghast to her feet as he looked over the forces standing just beneath the Breach.

They had done it. Or at least — done something.

“Thank you, Captain,” the Seeker told him, and she sheathed her sword and began to follow Cullen without another glance.

“Is she — is she —” he could hear her asking, and for a moment he stared after the small group, hoping to hear the answer as well.

“She is alive,” Cullen answered firmly.

With a curt nod to himself, Rylen redirected his attention to the men regrouping, attention all fixed on the retreating figures surrounding the mage who had miraculously saved them. The demons had been taken care of, and the soldiers and others were helping one another to their feet to seek healing.

“Men, back to Haven,” he directed, and stopped to steady someone as they limped forward.

He followed the precession back to the village, stopping occasionally to help soldiers along the way. The entire time he kept an eye on the commander's progress, until they finally crossed through the palisade into Haven. Along the path villagers and soldiers alike were kneeling, bowing their heads in prayer, hugging one another as they cried.

Rylen made his way carefully through the crowd, occasionally barking directions until he reached the outside of the cabin they had taken her to for healing. The Commander was still inside, and so he stationed himself by the door to wait for him. They needed to decide what to do next, after all there were still rifts in the area and reports about how far they had spread had yet to come back.

None of this made any blasted sense, and so he was focusing on what he knew and could control. Patrols, mapping out the area, protecting the village — these were all not only his duty but things he knew he could handle. Whatever was going on in the sky, or with the mage’s glowing hand, was outside his expertise, and so he’d let the others worry about them. He could help by managing the rest while they figured out a way forward.

He didn’t know how many days he had been patrolling and fighting, and he stretched his sore arm as he waited, trying to work out the strain from carrying his shield for so long. Later he’d seek out the healers for some elfroot for his bruises, but he’d managed only minor injuries and they likely had their hands full at present.

The door to the cabin opened beside him, and he turned to see who was finally leaving. Sister Nightingale and the Seeker filed out, closely followed by Cullen — who looked over his shoulder one last time before he closed the door behind them.

“She will be fine, Commander,” Sister Nightingale murmured, stopping with her arms folded to speak with the other two. When she caught sight of Rylen standing nearby she nodded, gesturing her chin to invite him into their small circle.

“Yes, I — I suppose she will. Now, as for everything else…” Cullen trailed off, a troubled frown pulling at his brows as he placed his hands on the hilt of his sword.

“We need to decide what to do,” Seeker Pentaghast said, heaving a sigh and rubbing at her forehead.

“You and I can discuss the rest, as for securing the village —”

“I can handle that,” Rylen interrupted the Nightingale, giving a brief salute. “Patrols should be increased, and I can find a group of men to scout the area and the Temple.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, though he almost looked momentarily lost as he met Rylen’s gaze. After a pause he cleared his throat. “We should go consult our maps, see where they are needed.”

Rylen nodded curtly and began to turn away, intending to seek the Chantry.

“Commander, you both need rest, you’ve been fighting for days,” the Nightingale protested.

“We can plan first and sleep after. It’s too pressing to put off,” Cullen denied, and he gestured for Rylen to continue before he fell into step beside him.

As they made their way up the snowy and muddy path, Rylen shot his companion a furtive glance. “You all right, mate?”

“Yes, fine,” Cullen answered, but he slowed slightly. “She...was not what I was expecting.”

“The mage?” Rylen slowed to a stop and faced Cullen, who was staring back down the path to the cabin,

“She — saved us. And also protected — shielded — me. It was...I have never had a mage use magic like that for…” He didn’t finish the thought, shaking his head even as a dark look clouded his face.

Rylen knew better than to ask, and instead folded his arms as he considered the implications. Finally he shrugged. “Perhaps she really is what we need, and there’s more to that glowing hand than we thought.”

Cullen pulled himself back to the present and nodded absently. “Yes, perhaps. We won’t know until she wakes up, though. Best to get to work.”

“Just like always,” Rylen agreed as they continued walking, thinking back to their time together, since that fateful day in Kirkwall’s destruction. “To work.”

The chantry was full of refugees, people from the surrounding area and those who had been there for the Conclave sheltered in its walls. They both looked the crowd over, and Cullen gave a soft sigh.

“Word of what has happened has already spread, seems like.”

“Aye, but they needed a bit of good news.” Rylen scanned the faces, seeing a bit of hope there at last. Most of the crowd was grouped together, families or the like. In one corner he caught sight of a familiar face, eyebrows raising on his forehead as he took in the state of him.

The strangely dressed noble he had rescued from the snowy hills was propped against one wall, surreptitiously watching those around him. He was tucked into the corner, the sleeves of his dirtied white shirt rolled up to his elbows, the bottom of his dark trousers caked in mud just as his shiny black shoes were. Despite the dirtied and worn look to him now, he still held himself with a disdain for everything clear even at a distance, a haughty look on his face. He was handsome, that much Rylen had noticed, though his sun-kissed skin was more sallow now, his stark white hair disheveled.

Rylen frowned as he noticed the man’s gaze flick to him, his scowl increasing, and he simply ignored the casual nod Rylen gave to acknowledge him. For now Rylen continued after Cullen to the room they had been using to plan their offensive, but decided it was worth investigating later.

Once within, Cullen and he stopped beside the map and looked it over. Silently Cullen began moving markers, and Rylen shuffled through sheets of parchment for their latest reports.

“There is likely still activity in the area,” Cullen mused.

“Aye, I plan on sending a group out to see if what we did had any effect on the smaller tears in the area,” Rylen told him. He pointed at an area. “That marker can go, it disappeared at some point. And those the mage closed.”

Cullen nodded and removed them from the map, then sighed. “I still do not understand any of it.”

“Me either, mate. But we do understand leading men, and protecting innocents. Right now it has to be enough.” Rylen took his helmet off, dragging his hand through his sweaty, flattened waves. “We can give our orders to the men that are available, and then seek our rest. Healing. We’ve been going for days.”

“No, we need to —”

“We need to not be half-batty without sleep,” Rylen interrupted the protests he’d expected, placing his hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “Come along, mate. We can leave things in their hands for a few hours, eh?”

Cullen heaved a sigh, leaning his hands on the table as he hung his head. “I suppose…”

“They can wake us if they need us. You need sleep, mate, you look like shite.”

Cullen shot him a glare, but when he merely laughed in response the Commander shook his head and joined with a few chuckles of his own. “You’re one to talk, Rylen.”

“Oh, I know I do. But I can’t sleep if you’re still fussing around like a mother hen, what would the men think? So please, I beg of you, mate — sleep so I can,” Rylen insisted with a smirk.

Stretching, Cullen finally straightened and nodded. “You are right. Sleep and an elfroot potion. Maybe we’ll both wake up to find out this was all a horrible dream.”

“If only we’re that lucky,” Rylen grumbled. “I’ll set patrols.”

“I will send men to what is left of the Temple.”

Their jobs set forth, they made their way back into the halls of the Chantry. There was more bustle now, news still spreading, prayers being spoken aloud, and in one corner the Chant of Light was being recited. As Rylen made his way through the people crowding the Great Hall, he remembered his inclination to seek out the noble and turned back.

As he approached he saw the man shift on his feet, folding his arms as he pointedly looked away.

“You all right, Serah?” Rylen asked, stopping before him and looking him over. This close up it was clear the man had bags under his eyes, and a wound healing at his temples.

“Fine,” the man gritted out.

“Settling in? You seemed lost the other day, did you remember —”

“I said I’m fine.”

Rylen frowned and considered. “Got an idea where you need to head? You didn’t look like you’re from around here?”

At this the man scoffed. “That’s an understatement.” He turned his glare back to Rylen, and piercing grey eyes dragged from Rylen’s feet to his gaze as the man’s lip curled. “What did you call yourself? A knight?”

“Knight-Captain,” Rylen supplied, furrowing his brows more deeply as he took in the contempt being shown so openly. Perhaps the man was a mage…

He snorted at Rylen’s correction and rolled his eyes. “‘Knight-Captain.’ Sounds so official. You look more like a thug to me.”

“I —” Rylen was at a loss, mouth hanging open for a moment as he tried to make sense of the man’s attitude. “Have I done something to offend you, mate?”

The cold glare met his own once more, anger flashing briefly behind his eyes. “I’m not your mate, _Knight-Captain Rylen_.” The man sneered again. “Leave me alone. I don’t need your help and I don’t think we have anything more to say to one another.”

Rylen stood for a moment simply gawking at the man, uncertain what he had done to draw his ire. The only thing he could think of was that the man had other motives, that he was a mage trying to hide or perhaps a spy. Which meant Rylen must know something about him.

Deciding not to engage further, he simply gestured with his helmet and turned away, frowning as he made his way through the chantry to seek out the men for patrols. If anything it made him more curious, and now he realized he should spend some time keeping an eye on the man moving forward.

* * *

It was the second tally he added after he’d crossed out the fifth, which meant…

A week.

John had been here for a week.

With a groan he leaned his head back against the stone wall, closing his eyes as his head throbbed. It had to be the lack of food, since finding any had been scarce. He no longer cared what it tasted like, only that perhaps it could make the aching in his belly stop.

Scooting further up the wall he propped a knee up, resting an elbow on it as he tried once again to make sense of any of this. The world was finally familiar, snatches of conversation matching what he had heard when Abby had played with him in the room. What little she had mentioned of the story she had written. And the art she had shown him had finally come back with cutting clarity, until his stomach turned to think of it.

A character she had created, a shirtless and tattooed man holding her in his arms…

Bitterly John pushed the memory aside, as well as the way that very man had approached him the other day. As much as John had wished this was a coma dream, he was having to come to terms with the fact that he was somehow really here. Which meant that man, the one Abby had written about…

He was real.

Idly he turned the picture he still held over in his hand, noticing how the crease was becoming more prominent from how often he looked at it. With a sigh he folded it once more, noticing the seven hash marks it now bore on its back. Placing it back in his wallet he instead looked at those nearby.

John was lost, and confused, but he simply focused on what he could. He spent his days listening to those around him, exploring the village or resting within the Chantry when he was too exhausted. So far he had still managed to find an occasional meal at the tavern, the sweet barmaid Flissa more than willing to help in exchange for some conversation and a charming smile. That he at least still had at his disposal, his charm and smile, though he was sick of his dirty clothes and longed for a bath. As well as somewhere more comfortable to sleep than huddled on the stone floor in a corner.

He needed to find a way back, but until then he needed…

His thoughts trailed off as he saw a familiar face, a man he had watched for the last few days. He was dressed far better than the rest, not in armor or rags like so many of the others. A strange mask covered his face, and he spoke with a strong accent that sounded French. He made his way through the crowd, speaking with a man in robes John had come to associate with some kind of religious order. They were speaking rapidly, though the masked man became heated and his words began to carry.

“ — they cannot stay! The DuRelion’s have owned these lands for —”

“Yes, so you keep saying, but —”

John pushed himself to his feet, brushing his hands on his pants before he began trying to make his clothes as presentable as he could. He couldn’t do anything about the dirt, but he could tuck his shirt in, roll his sleeves down and adjust his tie at least. For the last two days he had rehearsed what he could say, and as he slowly made his way to the pair he ran a hand through his hair to make it lay more neatly.

He approached just at the man in robes left, the masked man staring after him with what John could only assume was indignation since he could not actually make out his features.

“Excuse me, Sir — uh, Serah,” he greeted, and he gave the man a charming smile as he stopped before him.

“Apologies, but I am not offering — charity,” the man told him, his head moving slightly as he looked John up and down. “I must be going —”

“Actually, I was hoping I could offer you my assistance. I am — well, I have experience negotiating such matters. I could not help but overhear that you seem to think this — _Inquisition_ — is trespassing on your lands?”

“And you think you could help me?” The tone of his voice made it clear he doubted, again looking over John’s clothes.

John gave a small chuckle and gestured down himself. “Hard times, as I am certain you know. But I am no lowly refugee. I believe I can help you stake your claim to what is rightfully yours.”

There was a pause, and the man folded his arms. “And how might you do that?”

John placed a hand in his pocket, bracing his feet apart as he switched back into what he knew, what he was good at. “If, as you say, your family has owned these lands for years, surely you have a deed? Anything that might officially, formally declare this village as a part of your own holdings.”

“Yes, there is — something. But why should you be able to help me?” The man casually waved a hand, as if dismissing the notion, but John merely smiled.

“I am not from around here, I like many others have been stranded. But I am no peasant, or soldier. I work with — laws. I interpret and help those who need me, and I think I could help you make your case.”

“You work with — laws?” The man tapped the chin of his mask thoughtfully. “Truly? How interesting...I am sorry for dismissing you so soon.”

“No apologies necessary, I understand. I am Joh — Jonathan. If you have an official claim, I would be interested in seeing so that I can help you.”

“And why would you help me, Jonathan?”

John shrugged, holding a hand out as if to indicate it was a small thing. “A better place to stay. As I said I am not from around here, I have merely these clothes on my back and a small bit of comfort would be all I ask in return.”

For a moment the man considered, and John tried to keep the eagerness from his face as he waited. It was only a chance, though now it seemed less of a long shot than he had believed. Hope began to grow within him, almost a foreign feeling after a week that had felt like an eternity.

“All right, Jonathan. It must be better to try than to not. And in exchange I will offer you a place, and some coin for your time. If you are to help the Marquis DuRelion, you will have earned it.”

“Thank you, Serah,” John accepted with a wide smile, and he gave a slight bow.

“Well, I will go look for what you requested, and then we can —” He stopped speaking as someone approached them from behind, and he straightened. “Ambassador Montilyet, I must speak with you —”

“I am busy at present, Marquis DuRelion,” a strangely accented, feminine voice interrupted.

John turned to see who had stopped beside them, only to find himself face to face with a beautiful woman wearing gold satin, and carrying a wooden plank bearing a candle as if it were a clipboard. She had dark hair and warm brown skin, and he was surprised to see her attention fixed on himself and not the Marquis.

“But I must insist —”

“Later, Marquis, I do apologize. You, Serah,” she addressed John, and gave him a swift once over. “With me, if you would?”

For a breath of a moment John considered denying the request, insisting that he go with the Marquis, who now stood puffing his chest up. Instead John nodded, and when she turned away he made to follow.

“I will speak with you another time, Marquis,” John said, giving a quick bow of his head as he took long strides to catch up with the woman.

His mind was racing, and he tried to piece bits of information together. She, like a few others, bore an uncanny resemblance to a distant memory, and the Marquis had addressed her as ‘Ambassador.’ He couldn’t tell if it all made him nervous, that perhaps he had finally done something to catch the wrong attention, and his empty stomach twisted with apprehension.

She led him to a small room like an office, and shut the door once he had crossed the threshold. Sweeping to take her place in the chair behind a large wooden desk, she set her clipboard down, folding her hands and studying him.

“Apologies, miss…?”

“Ambassador Josephine Montilyet,” she answered, and raised an eyebrow. “And who may you be, that you can handle a blustering man like the Marquis with such ease?”

John felt himself blanch, eyebrows raising as he considered her. He steadied himself once more and gave her a slight bow, as he assumed must be due to one of her station. “I am Jonathan Baker, Ambassador. I am — a stranger to these particular lands, stranded by the catastrophe that seems to have stranded many others as well.”

It was the lines he had rehearsed in case he was asked, instinct telling him not to be overly forthcoming, and so he settled on the simplest variation of the truth.

“A stranger? And where do you hail from, then?” she asked, her tone even, managing to hide any reaction to what he said.

She was impressive, and he couldn’t help but muse that in another life she would have made a formidable lawyer.

“Manhattan, a — small place, I doubt you would be familiar with it.” He hoped it would be enough to satisfy curiosity without trying to catch himself by telling a deeper lie. After all, he didn’t know enough about this world to tell a convincing one.

“I know a great many places, but I must say I have not ever heard of Manhattan.” The Ambassador straightened and pushed a few sheets of parchment to the side of her desk as she thought. “You handled that remarkably well, though I am curious what movitations you have to help the Marquis lay claim to this village.”

John gulped, but then offered her a charming smile, deciding on the truth. “I have no real interest in what becomes of the village. My motivations were purely selfish.” He shrugged and placed his hands back in his pockets. “Presently, the Marquis seemed the fastest route to a better situation for myself than sleeping in your Chantry.”

He held her gaze, not allowing the nerves to show, wondering what she would think of such pragmatism. To his surprise, she smiled.

“I believe I can offer you better. A counter, if you will, to the meager request you made of the Marquis.”

John’s heart raced slightly faster at the prospect, and he swallowed before he nodded. “I’m willing to listen.”

“Rather than helping the Marquis with one little problem and likely failing, I can offer you a place with the Inquisition. Working for myself, specifically.” She shifted in her seat, running a hand down the ruffles on her front, straightening much as she would sitting across from him in a conference room.

“And what would I be doing? I know nothing of your Inquisition and its cause, nor do I likely share it,” he admitted.

“We intend to restore order to this chaos. And I will need assistance dealing with more like the Marquis. Treaties, laws, alliances. After how I observed you handling yourself with him, I believe you might have the, ah — sensible attitude we require. As well as the decorum, you carry yourself well.”

John smiled, and ran a hand down his scruffy jaw as he considered. “Working for you — would I be paid, have a place to stay? Or will I find myself still sleeping on the hard ground.”

“You will have quarters, and coin.” She let her gaze wander over him. “After all I would expect you to look the part, if you were to help represent us.”

John gestured a hand. “We have a deal, Ambassador.” 


End file.
